Chapter 3
It might not seem like it, but Midoriya Izuku is not an optimist.
He supposes he had been, once, in a way that all children at some point believed they were destined for great things. Izuku doesn't really know where that point had long since passed. When he'd learned that he has a handicap. That he has to work twice as hard—not even to win—just to merely be there.
Izuku knows what losing feels like. Belly acid and blood-bitten lips and the constant ashen, burnt smell clinging to his school uniforms. Losing, to Izuku, is akin of water to fish.
Ranking second academically in his grade ever since elementary school sure didn't help him to get popular. Didn't even help stop his bullying—if worse. Only made him look at Kacchan's back again, ad infinitum, as Kacchan stands first place.
Always. Kacchan, above him, ahead of him. Like an absolute, immovable object of victory. A cruel, taunting representation of what Izuku can never be.
(Or what Izuku could have been. He'd just missed the genetic lottery. Well, no use crying over what never was. Though still, of course, Izuku cries. Occasionally. )
Izuku isn't an optimist. Not really. He would say he is a realist, albeit a really, really really, stupid one. Which means this: Izuku is really, really really, stupidly ambitious.
Life has dealt him a set of crap cards. Izuku just has to learn how to deal, and occasionally, cheats.
"You fight dirty," Yagi observes, almost in marvel. Izuku's lungs creak painfully, having all its air punched away when his back hit the sand. Izuku twists his mouth in something resembling a grin and a grimace. The sky is blood orange; the sun is going down. It's gonna be dark, soon.
"I still lost in the end, though," he says, when he manages to. He takes the hand offered and winces—his shoulder blades smart a little, as he gets on his feet. "Sorry for that, Yagi-san."
"I told you to call me Toshinori," Toshinori chides, but with a smile. Due to his height, his stature blocks the wisps of dying sunlight almost entirely, casting the edges of his blond hair in a golden, glowing halo—
—not for the first time, Izuku thinks he's seen this before, something about the vision is so terribly, dearly familiar, something about the kind smile, the—
"—though I must say, I hadn't expected that," he continues as he tosses Izuku his water bottle. He brought the one with All Might insignia today. He thought it'd somewhat motivate him. Toshinori-san had a funny look on his face when he saw it earlier.
"I'm sorry," Izuku's insides curdles in a sort of shame. "I hope all that sand didn't get too much into your eyes—" it was a desperate move, but not something he hadn't thought about ever since they'd started their little sparring sessions on this kind of location, and although a part of Izuku tries to cheaply justify it with 'taking advantage of his surroundings' it still doesn't feel like a heroic move, it's obviously the total opposite, but Izuku'd needed to have some kind of upper hand, some element of surprise even if for a moment because the sheer gap of fighting experience between the both of them is painstakingly huge and if Izuku wants to stand any chance at all he—
"Midoriya-kun."
Izuku snaps up and blinks. "Did I—"
"Say everything out loud? Yes."
Darn. Izuku really needs to cut that habit out. "Sorry."
"It's nothing to be sorry for," it takes a while, but Izuku now realizes this particular weird look Toshinori gives him means that he's uncomfortable. He's always uncomfortable whenever Izuku apologizes, for some reason Izuku doesn't get.
But, wait, Izuku apologizes a lot. That's like, his defining character trait, probably. Which means that Izuku apologizes a lot to him, which means Toshinori is at least uncomfortable around Izuku 80% of the time, which means that—
"Midoriya-kun."
Izuku is mortified. "Did I say those out loud?"
"No, but I could almost hear you thinking. Don't say sorry," Tohsinori blurts, cutting Izuku's third apology in the last minute.
"Okay, sorry," it's out before Izuku can even stop it. Izuku cringes at his own awkwardness and chugs the water down before he blurts out another sorry to apologize ... for his apology.
He kind of avoids looking at Toshinori but he can hear the man sighs in resignation, but not without a note of something softer. Izuku thinks about how his mom looks at him with that gentle exasperation on her face.
Izuku caps his water bottle. He's got to stop this kind of thoughts before he does something crazy, like looking at Toshinori as some kind of parental figure or something. Wild. Izuku is a lot of stupid but not that stupid.
He hopes.
"I," Izuku starts, and pauses. Trying to figure out a way to say that he's sorry without saying it. "I hope you don't mind the. Um. Thing that I did. Too much."
The cold breeze is coming in. It's getting steadily dark down the horizon. "Fighting dirty, you mean?" there is just a hint of amusement in Toshinori's voice, but also some kind of curiosity.
"Ye—yeah."
Toshinori hums thoughtfully. "I don't, actually," he admits. "I was just surprised, is all."
This time, it's Izuku who is surprised. "Wait, really?"
Toshinori looks at him sideways with a small smile. He looks healthier, lately, somehow. More relaxed, maybe. "Fights are inherently dirty, Young Midoriya. No fights are ever really fair."
Something about the last sentence strikes Izuku. "Huh," he turns his gaze to the sea. The last rays of the setting sun turns the end of the ocean into yellow, glimmering diamonds. "I guess that's true."
"And if you're going to be a hero—"
Izuku turns his head so fast he thinks he gets a whiplash.
"—I suppose you should know that villains aren't the most virtuous fighters."
Izuku gapes. "How did you—?"
Toshinori's smile turns into something more explicitly amused, this time, mirth in the depth of those sallow eyes. "Midoriya-kun, we've been acquainted for more than half a year, now, and you've.." he gestures to their surroundings. "Turned this garbage dump into an actual beach, now. I even saw someone walked a dog around here the other day. That never happened."
"Well," Izuku muttered, cheeks heating up ferociously, "I wouldn't say I did it all.."
"And you've been taking self defense practices, and the sparring—"
"I never actually beat you though.."
Toshinori stops, and they look at each other. They've started their practices for a few months now, long after they've started having lunches together post-running. Izuku had tentatively revealed that he's been taking judo and kenjutsu classes and whatnot, and surprising both of them, Toshinori had offered.
Although Toshinori had assured Izuku that he's 'experienced'—though Izuku noticed that he'd avoided telling the full extent of said experience—Izuku had initially been unsure, for many reasons. It's not that Izuku thinks he'd do actual harm to Toshinori—his lessons have been going pretty good, but Izuku definitely does not think of himself as some sort of martial arts prodigy. Izuku has started awkward-footed, skinny-limbed—but well, Toshinori just … isn't the fittest guy around.
The first time the man actually coughed out blood Izuku almost called the ambulance. It took a lot of convincing on Toshinori's part to assure Izuku that no, he isn't dying.
("Not really, dying, anyway," Toshinori had said.
Izuku had sputtered. "Not really d—what does that even mean?"
"I mean," Toshinori had shrunk as the conversation went on. Never a seven feet tall man looked so small. "I mean, sure, I don't have a stomach, but.."
"Oh, I see—you don't have what?")
But then, after a cautious, awkward, and incredibly humiliating first try, it quickly dawned on him that Toshinori was telling him the truth. The man was clearly experienced, and skilled, and despite his thin, frail figure, he had absolutely no problem in kicking Izuku's ass it's almost ridiculous.
And so it continued, every other week—with Izuku always ending up having his ass handed to him.
"No, you haven't," Toshinori agrees. There is something piercing about his gaze, Izuku's noticed for some time. "You haven't beat me. But you never stopped trying."
Izuku laughs; a harsh, small self-deprecating sound. "Yeah, I'm that kind of—that kind of, uh, hopeless person, you know?"
Toshinori frowns. He doesn't reply for a while, and Izuku thinks that maybe he's said something wrong. Maybe he'd come off too depressed, or something—he hadn't really kept that depression thing in check, lately—but then Toshinori crouches down and sit beside him on the sand. Izuku fiddles with a loose thread on his shorts. They go silent for a while. This feels a little too much like a start of some kind of, grown-up consultation period or something. Izuku is not a fan of those.
"With all due respect, Young Midoriya, I disagree," he says. And so it begins, Izuku winces. "I think someone with as much determination as you is far, far, far from hopeless."
Izuku doesn't know what to say, so he doesn't. Maybe he should say thanks, bye and run into the night or something, but at the moment he can only blush and wince harder at the compliment. Kinda wants to deflect it with a nah, I'm pretty pathetic, actually, but he has a strong feeling that more self-belittlement is not a good idea. He already looks pathetic enough as is.
So.
"Doesn't explain how you knew I wanted to be a hero, though," Izuku changes the topic in what he hopes a smooth trajectory, "I could just. Be wanting to buff up and have my high school debut as 'The Guy Who Hit Puberty And Also The Gym,'" he air-quotes each word exaggeratedly.
Toshinori laughs, startled by the sudden shift of mood Izuku forces. It's lighter, now, though not without some uneasiness. "I don't know," he says, but the residue of his laughter remains. "I mean, the, er, all the hero merchandise are pretty much a dead giveaway."
Ah, right. Izuku can't help but blush. He looks down to the training shirt he wears—All Might colors—and the water bottle. And all those times he babbles about heroes in their little conversations. Toshinori must notice his sudden, apparent embarrassment because he hurriedly jokes, "well, if you only wanted to buff up, congratulations, I suppose."
Izuku laughs, this time. He appreciates the attempt. "Thanks," the grin stays on his face, but not for long. He doesn't know what got into him, but he says it anyway, "I'm going to U.A."
He regrets it immediately. He looks away, his eyes following the dots soaring in the sky. Seabirds, silhouetted into black spots. He can feel Toshinori's eyes burning the back of his head. "I'm going to be a hero."
"I see," Toshinori's voice is soft, so soft it's almost a whisper; but the wind carries it to Izuku.
Izuku shakes his head to himself, part embarrassed, part plain bitterness. "What am I saying? It's not—it's not like I'm gonna absolutely get in—" but he has to, Izuku thinks urgently, desperately. He has to get in. No matter what. No matter what it takes.
Izuku draws a deep, careful breath. "I … don't really … have the best chances, but. Well. It doesn't hurt to try." Except it does.
Izuku is trying, and he knows trying hurts, because he's always been trying. He's been trying his whole life, and—and where has it taken him?
To the morgue.
Izuku could laugh.
Toshinori does not need to know this. No one needs to know any of this. "It doesn't matter," he insists, to himself, to no one. "It—anyway," Izuku stands up without preamble. This conversation is steering too much to—this conversation is done. "I should be home soon."
"Young Midoriya." Izuku pauses. Great, he thinks acidly, he's done it. What Izuku always does.
Izuku knows he is—that he is kind of always sad. The kind of sad that makes people uncomfortable at best and disgusted at worst. There are reasons other than Kacchan—reasons why it's so difficult for Izuku to find friends. Izuku is sad. He's come to realize that people can feel it. It's like all his sadness is just, just pouring out of him. He is sad all the time and it's quite literally unbearable; to him, and he guesses, to everyone else.
And he supposes, it makes sense, because he is a beaming beacon of look, I'm sad. I'm depressed. And no one wants that. No one wants him, and Izuku doesn't blame them. Izuku doesn't want him either.
No one wants the sad, friendless, Quirkless kid. He's just ... something … to put pity on, once in a while. A peripheral object his classmates glance at, while thinking, thank god it wasn't me. Thank god, at least someone is having it worse than I am. People like Izuku does fine as this kind of little reminder to feel grateful—at least I'm not like you, poor you—but he is not something to look at on the long term. He certainly isn't something to befriend. Izuku's learned this years ago.
He forces what he hopes is a neutral smile on his face so he would stop looking like someone who had attempted to kill himself or something. Which, well. "Yes, Toshinori-san?" he turns, daring himself to look at Toshinori in the eye—and regrets it instantly, because Toshinori looks positively crestfallen.
Izuku's really done it. Again. His smile falls off his face so quick like someone turned off the light. "I brought the mood down, didn't I?" his throat is painfully dry, despite having just finished his entire water bottle earlier. "I'm sorry."
Toshinori's face twists for a second, making him look especially ill—more ill than he already is—but it's quickly replaced with a small, startlingly genuine smile. "There is nothing to be sorry about," and then, "may I ask you a question, Midoriya-kun?"
Somehow, Izuku knows that it's an honest, fair offer. If Izuku makes up some excuse and makes an escape out of the convo with a simple, it's getting late, Toshinori-san, he can. Toshinori isn't just saying it; Izuku can opt out if he chooses to. No question asked; literally.
Breathe, he scolds himself. Calm down. "Shoot," Izuku says, softly. The sun has gone entirely. The streetlights have lit on.
"Why are you always so hard on yourself?"
Now that's unexpected. Izuku stares with wide eyes, stunned. "I'm not.." he starts, and trails.
What good would denial do? Izuku pauses. He doesn't like this question. His therapists must've asked him dozens of variations of it a thousand times over the past nine months; and he's always given dozens of variations of the same answer: I don't know.
But Toshinori isn't his therapist. He is his friend.
Distantly, Izuku realizes his hands have started shaking. He grabs the edge of his shirt and hopes it doesn't show. God. Is he going to start crying and screw up the only friendship he's had in a decade? He's got to get a damn hold of himself. He pushes his terrible, trembling fists into the pocket of his basketball shorts. He tries to focus his eyes at some faraway point. The udon shop far near the beach. The leftover metal scraps he hasn't gotten the chance to pick up. The cold, vast, uncaring sea.
"I'm just," he forces all the trembling, shaking thing in the pit of his chest out of his voice. Crushing it down to a flat monotone out of his mouth. "I'm just. I'm never good enough."
Wrong answer. Toshinori looks like he just got his heart broken—pain clear and palpable in the frown between his hollow eyes and the cadence of his voice and Izuku hatesit. "Midoriya-kun," he starts, but Izuku's had enough.
"I have to go," Izuku announces and then immediately makes a run for it, which is a stupid move, because you can't run haphazardly on sand without slipping and making a fool out of yourself—and that is exactly what he does the next second.
Nine months of judo training and he faceplants to the ground. Fantastic.
As he gets up shamefully, now with a mouth full of sand and his ankles twinging in pain, he is silently thankful for Toshinori for not trying to help him amidst his embarrassing spectacle. Izuku disgracefully pats the grains of sand off his shirt and debates the merit of saying something to make things less awkward. Like, see you later or please forget you ever saw that or even better: please forget you ever met me and please erase all your memories of me because I am so embarrassed right now I want to die. However, he quickly figures that he's just going to somehow embarrass himself even more so he just power-walks really fast out of the beach with his shoes chock full of sand.
When he's sure he's out of Toshinori's line of sight, he throws up at the nearest garbage can.
"How are you feeling?"
"Great," Izuku says automatically.
His mother waits.
"Not great," Izuku says.
She looks at him.
"I want to chuck myself to the ocean," Izuku confesses, and shoves a spoonful of rice to prevent his mouth from saying anything more.
She sighs, but smiles. "Well, please don't."
"Okay."
"It would be hard to explain to the police."
The uncharacteristically dark joke startles Izuku so much he sputters and nearly spits the aforementioned spoonful of rice. He coughs and drinks his water and swallows. And then his eyes meet his mom's in a short silence—and then they both laugh.
This is new. This takes time. Inko has been walking on eggshells after … after the incident, and it takes a while for both of them to figure out that Izuku doesn't need that fragile treatment. Izuku doesn't think his mandatory therapy sessions has helped him as much as his mother has.
The thought gives him both a jolt of unrelenting affection and guilt all the same.
"So," his mother begins, as they wash the dishes side by side. "The entrance exam."
He can hear the effort his mother puts to sound nonchalant. Izuku appreciates that. He doesn't want to make a big deal about it, despite it being a really big deal. Precisely because it's a really big deal.
"It's next week," Izuku confirms, although they both know his mom has been counting down the days on her own.
His mom hums. "Excited?"
So excited he could puke. "Yeah," Izuku says, and it's not really a lie though. He is excited. Even though he knows the whole thing is a bad idea. Because if he fails—
He doesn't want to think about it.
"You won't fail."
Izuku turns his head to look at his mom in surprise. Had he say it out loud?
"No, you didn't say it out loud," his mom smiles sideways at him. "But I could hear you thinking."
Huh. Izuku smiles, small and brief, before it's quickly replaced by a grimace. "I don't know," and then, "I have to pass, mom. I have to."
Truly and honestly and desperately. This is—this is all Izuku has.
But that's not true, is it? He looks at his mom, who looks back. There is that sort of mix of sorrow and utter love on her face again.
What will happen to him if he fails? What then?
(What will he do to himself?)
He really doesn't want to think about it, and that's precisely why—why he has to pass. One way or the other. Quirk or no Quirk..
Not that his Quirk—it still feels ridiculous to think about it. He has a Quirk. Him! Ha!—would help in a combat situation, though. Which is a problem, because he knows UA—as a powerhouse academy—won't let a non-combative student into its prestigious, extremely selective hero class. Izuku doesn't even know what the entrance exam has in store—both the written test and the practical one, only that they are excessively difficult. They shake things up every year, and if anything about the research he's conducted tell him, the practical exam will be combat heavy. That's a problem.
That's why he has plans.
When life deals you a set of crap cards … you got to have some up your sleeve.
The tap water stops running and his mother puts the last plate to the shelf. Both of them wipe their hands on the towel in a comfortable (if a tad heavy) silence.
"Dessert?" His mother suggests, with an ever present smile.
They sit on the couch with a tub of matcha ice cream in hand. Initially, Izuku had planned to cut down his sugar and stuff, but his mother quickly shut that idea down. "You're going to be stronger and healthier," his mother had said, "not skinnier." The past nine months have been nothing but proteins and carbohydrates and Izuku doesn't think he's ever been fitter. He's taller than his mom, now, to his surprise, and his mom had mentioned him needing to shop for new clothes because they don't exactly fit anymore.
He had to go through thorough medical checkup to apply for UA, so that's one less thing to worry about. It was a surprise, but he supposes it ... makes sense, though it's a hesitant thought. Though, he wonders what happens to applicants with some sort of medical needs. Would UA accept them?
Long ago, before Quirks manifested, there used to be limitations on people in certain careers—military, medical career, even common careers—problematic limitations for people with mental and physical disability. Now—two centuries later—with Quirks, it only got a lot more complicated.
Complicated, and no less problematic.
See, U.A has always been Izuku's dream. U.A, first ranked Hero Academy in Japan, third in the world. Maybe it's a form of idolatry, on his part. A wistful thinking, definitely. U.A, in a way, is a manifestation of Izuku's worth, like Kacchan. If he ever, ever stand equal to Kacchan—if Izuku ever gets in U.A, the school that taught All Might, the number one hero and everything Izuku wishes for—
Izuku is no longer a child. Not exactly. Dreams don't work like that. Getting into U.A won't solve his … issues. But maybe. Maybe.
If he does this, if somehow he does this and gets into U.A, then maybe Izuku does have worth. Maybe Izuku is good enough.
His therapist would say this is a toxic way of thinking. Which is why Izuku never tells her this. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one of these days if his sessions get extended—and with the strain it puts on his mom's bank account, he doesn't think so.
"So," Inko says, as an old rerun of Detective Conan season 13 of Detective Conan (the 22nd century remake) plays in the background, "how's your little project going?"
Izuku smiles, a genuine one. "Oh," he scoops a spoonful of ice cream. "It's going, alright."
Inko smiles around her spoon. "The fifteenth prototype test?"
"Yes, fine, you were right," Izuku rolls his eyes fondly. "Ceramic core works much better than chrome. Still has the issue of containing the electromagnetic field though—"
Inko points a spoon at him. "Do not test it when I'm not home."
Izuku throws his hands up in exasperation. "Mom," he swears he isn't whining. He isn't. "That was one time—"
Inko sniffs, but her eyes are shining with mirth. "That was my favorite doormat."
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry," Izuku rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. It was a bad idea. "Not sure if it'll be ready by the exam, though." He isn't positive that he is going to be able to use it without charring his arm to bits. Yet. "Or. Ever. But."
"But it's really cool, isn't it?"
"It's really, really cool," Izuku agrees. "We should binge Star Wars again."
"We will when you pass the entrance exam."
Izuku looks at his mom, but she isn't looking at him. She's said it so casually, eyes still at Shinichi Kudo who is now monologuing about some absurd theorem of murder weapons and culprit motives. She's said it like it's an absolute certainty.
If anything else—if not for whatever comes in the future, if it's not to salvage whatever semblance of childhood dream or messed up self-worth or a buried down, charring contempt Izuku keeps shut far in the dark, dark pit of his heart—if it's not for a single one of those things—
Izuku is doing this for her. For the both of them. Because it's always the two of them—it's always only been the two of them, versus the world.
"Mom," Izuku says, and stops. His throat feels tight.
"Don't," Inko is still not looking at him. "Son, if you start crying, then I'll start crying, and I want to finish this ice cream."
"Okay," Izuku laughs, wiping the wetness of his eyes away with his sleeve.
The day of his U.A entrance exam, Izuku kinda wants to die more than usual.
"This was a bad idea," Izuku tells his mom as she passes him his miso soup. He does not feel hungry at all. He does not feel like existing at all. "This was a terrible idea. What was I thinking? Mom, what was I thinking?"
"Hush," Inko says, "finish your rice."
"Okay."
And so it begins.
Chapter 4
"It'd be bad luck if you tripped, right?"
Whatever her Quirk is (emitter, a form of telekinesis, object manipulation?) it rights Izuku's center of balance with a gentle tug. Both feet now touching the ground, Izuku blinks at her. Her smile is kind of blinding.
"Eurghegh," he says intelligently.
"Well, good luck, yeah?" she says, as if he had responded with human words. "See ya!"
Izuku stares at her disappearing figure and thinks, wow. Apparently it's possible to want to die more than he already had. What's another embarrassing instance keeping him awake at night for the rest of his life, anyway?
Anyway. Right. The entrance exam.
Izuku wipes his sweaty palms down his pants. Not like it helps.
Izuku has always been a nervous person. He's got a lot of ticks, he thinks. His runny mouth, mostly, sometimes stutters. Shaking hands. Nausea. Right now, though, he actually thinks he is in hell.
He's got to calm down. The breathing exercise, he reminds himself. Having those drilled to his head like crazy for the past nine months has got to help. Breathe in, breathe out. It's okay. He is not doing anything stupid, no. This whole thing is totally not a mistake.
Izuku grips the strap of his gym bag. He is here. He is doing this. Also he's paid for the entrance exam, and he is not gonna waste his mom's money, so yeah, there is that.
The nice girl has disappeared into the building. Izuku, taking care not to trip off some pebble, follows suit.
Izuku knows that U.A is loaded. But as he sits among the ten thousand applicants in the humongous hallroom, he thinks, this can't be right.
"I'M GONNA GIVE YOU A LOW-DOWN ON HOW THIS'LL GO! ARE YOU READY ?"
Izuku has never been ready for anything in his life. But at least he got to see Present Mic himself—and hear his Quirk in the flesh. The timbre of the hero's voice booms loud and clear, the vibrato bouncing around the tall ceilings with non-existent amplifier. Oh my God, that's Present Mic.
The one and only. Izuku listens to him on the radio every week, though he never actually managed to get even one call in due to the huge traffic of the show. His Quirk is powerful, hearing it in person; the sheer volume of it reverberates down to Izuku's heart like bass notes through a sound system—
"Whoa, dude, you sure are a fan."
Izuku starts, turning to find a student staring at him with a sort of amusement. Izuku blushes—he must've been mumbling again. Izuku hesitates. He pays careful attention to the boy before him, trying to assess if that was a derisive comment. A mockery, maybe. But before Izuku could decide, the student holds out a fist. "I'm Kaminari Denki, by the way!"
Oh.
"Mi—Midoriya Izuku..?" he offers lamely like a normal person.
"Why do you say that like a question?" the boy laughs, easy and friendly. And then, a tentative, "dude … are you really gonna leave me hanging?"
Izuku looks down to see that he's still holding out his fist. Izuku realizes far too late that it's meant to be a fist bump.
(Later, Izuku realizes that this was his first ever fist bump.)
Wow. One embarrassing instance after another. He's on a roll. "Sorry," Izuku says, balling out his hand in what he thinks is a good approximation of what a fist bump … requires. "I'm, uh, I'm just kinda nervo—ouch!"
"Shit, sorry!" Kaminari says, seemingly as surprised as Izuku is. Someone shushes them. "Sorry," Kaminari whispers loudly. "Sorry, man, that happens a lot when I'm nervous—I give a lot of statics, sorry!"
"It's fine," Izuku says, though he waves his hand behind his back to shake the zing out, rubbing where their knuckles had touched—the zap was far stronger than a normal static touch. It kinda hurt, honestly, but he isn't about to tell Kaminari that. "Was that, uh, your Quirk?"
Kaminari opens his mouth to answer, but someone shushes them again—someone from the front—so they both cringe-grin at each other and stare out at the podium.
"NOW PAY CLOSE ATTENTION, LISTENERS! " Izuku can't help fanboying a little inside. Being addressed as listener, when Present Mic is right there? Unparalleled. "WE'LL BE TESTING YOUR METTLE BY RUNNING A TEN MINUTE PRACTICE RUN AT OUR REPLICA CITY-DISTRICT!
"YOU CAN TAKE WHATEVER YOU WANT WITH YOU!"
There it is.
He sneaks a glance at Kaminari. Kaminari doesn't bring anything with him, but the same can't be said with other students—and Izuku.
Izuku's seen the others carrying backpacks and cases that can't be anything other than some kind of support items. For their Quirks, mostly, Izuku would guess. Or just some kind of boost. He's checked the rulebook (obsessively) and even made some (nerve-wrecking) phone calls. Weapons are a go. Izuku is rarely ever lucky, but he thinks of this one as a blessing.
Not that the weapons would help Izuku much.
Stop, Izuku chastises himself. This is no time for self-deprecating crap—
"Geez, everyone sure is dead, though. Kinda feel bad for him," the boy, Kaminari, nods at the faraway stage. The entire stadium is silent, despite Present Mic's being master of ceremony. The rest of the students are apparently either too tense or too serious to treat this as some kind of a fun thing. The hero is still valiantly trying to hype them up, though. "Can't blame them ... I'm pretty anxious too.."
Izuku notices that Kaminari has been jittering for a while, his foot can't seem to stop tapping down the floor in a rapid beat. Kaminari is literally buzzing with energy. Izuku's throat feels dry. Nervous is an understatement—he thinks his heart is just gonna drop to his socks at any moment. "Me too," Izuku says.
"—HEAD TO THE SPECIFIED BATTLE CENTER, OKAY?"
Izuku checks the assigned paper as if he hasn't memorized the content already. Examinee no. 2234, Battle Center B. His own face smiles unsurely at him from the awkward, emblemed school photo.
Seven battle locations. That's what, roughly 1.400 kids per ground? The paper creases under Izuku's thumb. That's still a lot. Impossible, even.
They must've separated kids from the same school to different grounds. Izuku hasn't seen Kacchan. Has he caught that flash of familiar blond hair, amidst the mass of applicants?
No. Izuku would've known. Kacchan has always been the first person Izuku set his eyes to in any and every room. Whenever, wherever. By some lucky stars, they haven't bumped into each other—and maybe they won't, here. The thought grows deep in his chest as a cold, uneasy relief.
After it, and just as cold: shame. Shame, because Izuku knows he can't handle seeing Kacchan—can't handle taking another one of his jabs, figurative and literally. Since that day they haven't really talked to each other, but Kacchan's message was clear. He sure as hell wouldn't be happy seeing Izuku here.
No time to think about it. He's got more important things to think about, like—
"THREE DIFFERENT TYPES OF FAUX VILLAINS ARE STATIONED IN EACH BATTLE CENTER—"
Like that.
"—YOUR GOAL, LISTENERS, IS TO USE YOUR QUIRKS TO EARN POINTS BY IMMOBILIZING THE FAUX VILLAINS—"
See? Much more important things.
Use your Quirks. What does that mean? What does that entail? Izuku feels cold sweat pricks the back of his neck. Who's he fooling? He knows exactly what that means.
Just as he thought, then. The practical exam will favor entirely on the heavy-hitters. Quirk-heavy. Of course.
A student from the front is asking questions to Present Mic. Despite the air conditioning, Izuku is sweating like crazy. He tries to calm his beating heart down to listen. Something about the fourth villain—ah, right. Izuku's almost missed it.
Panicking always makes him miss things. Not good.
"—we examinees are here in this place because we wish to be molded into exemplary heroes—"
"Damn," beside him, Kaminari whispers, "that dude is intense—"
"—and you two over there!"
Despite not using any mic, the student—a tall guy in impeccable private school uniform—manages to somehow speak loud enough. Head turns all around, and with a sense of mortification, he realizes that the tall student is referring to Izuku. Izuku and Kaminari, precisely.
"Aw, man," Kaminari mumbles beside him.
"You two have been talking this whole time! It's distracting! If you're here to have fun, then just leave immediately!"
"Aw, man," Kaminari says for the second time. Izuku just wishes he were born as a tree.
"OKAY, OKAY, EXAMINEE NUMBER 7111, THANKS FOR THE GREAT MESSAGE, THOUGH! ANYWHO, THE FOURTH TYPE OF VILLAIN IS WORTH ZERO POINTS…"
Honestly, not much explanation. Four villains—from the looks of it, Izuku would guess some kind of machinery. Battle bots. Mobile or immobile? Armed, or..? From the sheer size of the faux-city … that can't be right.
But this is U.A, after all. Izuku is starting to think, uneasily, that everything is possible here.
"IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO DEFEAT, BUT THERE IS NO REASON TO DEFEAT IT EITHER," a pause, as Present Mic smiles to the mass. The stage lights above showers him with a surreal luminosity. "I RECOMMEND THAT YOU LISTENERS TRY TO AVOID IT, YEAH?"
The whole thing is like a game, Izuku thinks. Points, obstacles. Like a video game.
The thing is, Izuku has never been a winner.
"—THE HERO NAPOLEON BONAPARTE ONCE SAID: 'A TRUE HERO IS SOMEONE WHO OVERCOMES LIFE'S MISFORTUNES—"
Izuku would do anything, though, right? Whatever it takes. An arm, a leg.
You won't fail, his mom had said. And what had Izuku said, that day, to Toshinori-san? I'm going to U.A. I'm going to be a hero. Right?
Whatever it takes.
" —PLUS ULTRA!"
Once again, Izuku thinks, this can't be right.
"This can't be right," Izuku mutters.
"What can't?"
"Huh? O-oh," Izuku starts. "Oh, Kaminari-kun, you're in Block B too?" right, he hadn't asked; Izuku was all too wrapped up in his head and had split immediately. Was that rude? He kinda regrets it now.
"Yeah," he looks nervous, foot tapping on the ground, hands balled at his sides. Not like Izuku is in a better shape. "But damn, dude. This place is huge."
"Right?" they have more than one of these in the school grounds? How did they even get these authorized? How does the school tax even work ? He knows U.A is the epitome of elite, but this is downright ridiculous. "It can't be right."
Ten minute mock urban battle. Ten minute. He looks around. He was right; a large portion of the kids utilize some kind of support item, or suit. They look strong, Izuku notes with nauseating anxiety. They look strong, and competent, like they belong here. They look like heroes. Izuku cringes.
What is Izuku doing here?
Ten minute. It'll be a free for all. He has to beat all of these other kids, somehow. More than ten thousand people apply to U.A each year, right? He just has to be the one in three hundred.
He could laugh, but he kind of wants to throw up right now.
Don't panic. Don't panic. If he panics, he'll mess up and it'll all be over and he'll go home to his mom empty handed and that's if he even goes home after all—
He's panicking.
"Damn, why does everyone have a support item? Even you, Midoriya."
"Huh?" Midoriya looks down to his utility belt and his gym bag slung over his shoulders like a backpack. It's a comforting weight; and he's carried it with him enough that it wouldn't slow him down much. "O-oh, these. Yeah, my Quirk … needs some support items. And these are just, uh, common safety glasses," they're not even new, all scratched up that they are. These are the same worn out goggles that he uses all the time tinkering with stuff. "I just like to be prepared, you know?"
As if he is prepared at all at the moment.
"I feel like I'm the kid who didn't bring a pencil or something.." Kaminari doesn't look that distressed, but Izuku doesn't mistake the cold sweat dripping on the other guy's forehead.
Izuku isn't very good at motivating people, or talking to people at that matter, but. "Don't worry," he tries. "You'll be fine," unlike Izuku. After all, the exam favors combatant-heavy Quirk. And if the villains are what Izuku suspects they are, then—
Ah, that's the girl from the front of the gates. Izuku winces at the memory, but she was nice enough. Maybe he should go wish her luck, right? She looks kind of worried..
"What are you doing?" someone says, from behind. What really starts him, though, is the foreign hand on Izuku's shoulder.
Izuku turns. "Huh?" and then, "oh. "
"That girl appears to be trying to focus. Are you here merely to interfere with everyone else?"
Izuku's head blanks out. "Blergeugh," he offers.
"Hey, dude," Kaminari frowns, moving to stand beside Izuku. The student, the tall guy who had berated them at the hall, towers above Kaminari, but it doesn't seem to deter him. "Not cool."
"That's—that's alright," Izuku cuts in. The idea of someone else standing up for him is pleasantly very surprising—but startlingly uncomfortable, somehow. "It's okay, Kaminari-kun, um," he turns to the tall student. His figure is stoic, eyes hard behind his glasses. "I'm sorry, I didn't—I'm sorry."
The other applicants are looking. He can feel the eyes staring at him. He can almost hear the mockery. The off-hand, derisive comments.
(Kacchan isn't here. Kacchan isn't here.)
Under the tall student's cold eyes and the stares and everything that's happened today, it's getting more and more obvious that this was a mistake. That Izuku doesn't have a place here. Around these people that—that actually have powers , that look like the main characters in a superhero story. And Izuku is just Izuku, isn't he, and he just isn't supposed to be here—
Present Mic's voice booms over the arena. "WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?"
And then the exam begins.
Not only is it a free for all; it's a straight up buffet.
Physically, Izuku is in good shape. The fittest he's ever been. His stamina is alright, his strength is okay, and he's been told that he is fast and slippery.
Here, Izuku sees now that none of that means anything.
The other applicants are rushing to the battlefield, sinking claws and teeth on the first Villains they see, and those with destructive Quirks just blast through them like a breeze. Izuku, for a hopeless moment, can only stare at their backs from afar. The blatant metaphor is almost hilarious.
Izuku has always been behind. Always has the odds stacked up against him.
The tall student from before has some sort of a speed Quirk, fuming engine embedded in the calves of his leg. His speed is incredible as he tramples one bot to the other. There is an applicant with laser beam Quirk, another with strength-enhancer Quirk, and—
His eyes catch the nice girl that helped him from before, the one with the object manipulation Quirk. She touches the bots and they float as if weightless, feets above the ground even though they are at least five times her size. "Release!" she commands, and the bots crash down with great force.
Izuku's head spin. None of this feels real, yet this is the realest thing he's ever encountered—a straight up slap to his face.
What made him think that he could ever stood a chance? The difference is stark. Astronomical. There are other applicants like him too, who can only stand by the sidelines and watch as the VIllain bots are smashed to bits one by one.
Nine months of training and for what, he wonders, in half awe and acid, hammering self-deprecation. Nine months of blood and sweat and tears and his mother's smiles and for what?
It doesn't matter how many times he does push-ups, doesn't matter how fast he can run or how hard he can punch because someone will always, always, always be better than him, someone will always be stronger and worthy and he's just ... him. He's just Deku. He's just—
If you want to be a hero that badly, there is a quick way to do it.
—stop.
Stop. Stop. He wants to throw up. He forces the bile down. Stop. He has to stop panicking. When he panics, he screws everything up. Everything—and he can't, he can't afford to do that, he can't, he can't, so stop. He's got to stop. Don't think about it.
What, is he just going to stand there and watch and feel bad about himself? Spiral into another self-pity fest? Thinking about how unfair things are?
("You are not going to fail." )
Things are not fair. He should've gotten over it already.
Okay.
Izuku looks at his wrist watch. He's wasted a minute. Alright. Nine minutes left.
He has to be that one in three hundred. No matter what, right?
Right.
Think. He has to think.
Three Villain bots minus the one-pointer. And these are bots. Two, maybe two and a half metres tall. Military grade? No, there is no way those are lethal. Despite its military design, it has got no artillery. Auto machine gun. The one-pointer and two-pointer's got better mobility but less defense, the three-pointer is clearly more long-range with caterpillar tracks and built like a tank. Seems like U.A does not trade quality for quantity.
The streets truly look like battlefields—utter chaos. He's running out of time and out of Villain bots. What are his options?
Think. This is a test. He isn't provided the number or the location of the enemy. Limited amount of time, too. This test is about weeding out the students. Think. What do they want? What are his options?
He's quick, but his mobility is nothing compared to Quirk-combatant applicants. Pure combat ability is out of the question. His only options are to stay calm. Stay calm and understand the situation. Understand his situation.
He knows what to do. Or rather, he thinks he has some kind of idea of what he has to do. He has a hypothesis that he has to test out.
So he's got to find the test subject, hasn't he?
Izuku opens the compartments of his utility belt and starts to do his job. And then he runs.
If there is no place for Izuku here, then he just has to do what he does best. He is going to make one.
The bots seem to be placed randomly throughout the nooks and crannies of the artificial city. They have to be lured out, possibly, or activated. The ones in the big streets are either already reduced to rubble or are being fought over. Izuku has to be fast.
Come on. Come on.
His feet skids over to another street, and—
An explosion nearly trips him over. The building right across of him cracks and bursts open in a shower of dust and debris. Izuku reels; despite knowing Kacchan since he were four, Izuku has never seen an explosion in this big of a scale, and it's overwhelmingly disorienting. The smoke billows out, no longer obscuring Izuku's view.
Izuku isn't sure if this is a lucky or an unlucky occurrence.
A bot. A one-pointer, but Izuku always takes what he can. "Target acquired. I'll kill you!" it grounds out through its speaker. Alright, a little PG-13 there.
Don't panic. Think.
He can't help but feel a little impressed, and something else . All these facilities just for the entrance exam? Izuku saves this line of thought for later introspection. An army of bots, counting all the seven battle centers—but not enough.
Not for thousands of students battling for a seat in the hero course.
So, U.A can afford an army of battlebot, sure; but there is no way it can afford an army of AI.
What Izuku think is this: these robots can't think for themselves. They are just commands coded in, programmed and predictable movement and attacks all embedded in unpiloted metal and gears.
Brute force isn't an option. But maybe, hypothetically, he doesn't need brute force here. See, it's as simple as this: take away the wiring, and this is just a heap of metal. Isn't it?
"Alright," Izuku says, "alright. C-come on, you … big … thing." Grade A superhero quipping there.
And then Izuku rolls away as the bot begins to attack.
Its figure might be imposing, looking like a murder-robot and all, but its movement is direct and simple, and very predictable. Dodging it isn't easy, though, especially when you are trying to build a device off scraps you have in your fanny pack that you think will solve your issues. That's what Izuku is doing right now. He kind of relies on pure instinct and reflex as he skids to avoid its firing. "Please work," he prays, as he wraps a copper coil on a spark gap, ducking behind a chunk of debris for coverage. "Please work—!"
What was it, that he thought before? That it's like a "game"? Izuku tries not to think what would happen if he got hit—the ammo is harmless, he is sure, but if he gets thrown one of the huge chunks of debris, he's done for. Unlike a game, here, he can get killed —
"Target acquired. I'll kill you!"
"Oh, shut up," last wrap, and a tape—because sellotape is the greatest invention of human race—wrapped around his worn-out bokken that now looks more like some kind of wand-stick with ugly wires taped to it. "Please work," don't panic. Don't panic. If he panics, he messes up. If he panics, he can't think , and he maybe doesn't need brute force, but Izuku has to think. "Please work, please work, please work, oh god— goddangitall —" he doesn't have all the materials, so he has to improvise, but hypothetically, it should work. Hypothetically.
And then Izuku runs towards the bot.
That's the thing with bots. It only does things that it's programmed to, it only responds to a series of commands that it recognizes. Facing an unprecedented scenario—such as an incredibly stupid fifteen year old waving a wooden stick at it headfirst—always results in a split, confused second before the failsafe command kicks in.
In that split second, Izuku runs. He gets as close as possible to the bot and fires up the wiring on his previously-bokken-now-wand-stick with his pocket taser. "Please work," he says, pointing his invention-stick at the vague direction of the one-pointer.
"Target acquired. I'll—"
"What the hell, that's mine! I got to it first!"
"What? Yours? Did your grandma own U.A or something? Huh? Did she?"
"Hey, don't bring my grandma into this!"
"Thirteen, thirteen points, I got—"
"Five, I only got five, fuuuuck.."
"Dude, find your own bot, dammit, this one is mine!"
"Eat my entire ass!"
"I said don't bring my grandma into this, you son of a—"
Denki knows that just like him, these people just graduated middle school. But like this, on a literal battlefield and in a literal, though fake, burning city—the worst of humanity truly is a sight to behold. This is like, Battle Royale meets Transformers or something.
Amidst the chaos, though, he sees a small figure running towards them from far a—is that Midoriya?
It is. He looks a bit messed up, his hair somehow messier than before, and his eyes a bit wild staring out of those safety glasses. Denki figures they all look a bit crazy at the moment, though, so that's fair. Midoriya still has his bag strapped to his back, but he's holding something in his hand—a wooden sword of sort, a bokken, or a stick? With something taped on it—
Or maybe Denki is imagining things, because his brain is near malfunctioning right now. But he is pretty sure Midoriya is running to him.
"Hey, Midoriya," Denki says, though his tongue feels a little heavy. "Whassup? Oh, look, there're still some Villains left," from the end of the street, some applicants stumble from a building fighting off the bots.
Midoriya is panting a little from his running, and his eyes look even wilder than it did from afar. And then he says, "your Quirk is emitter and you can generate electricity, yes or no?"
A pause. And then, slowly, Denki says, "wha?"
"Kaminari-kun, we have less than four minutes left. Yes or no?"
"Yeh," Denki says, confused. "But why—"
"Do you want to team up?"
Denki blinks. "Wha?"
"How many points have you accumulated?" the words are fired in rapid shots and it takes a long second for Denki to process them.
"Wha—what?"
"How many points have you accumulated?" Midoriya insists.
"Twenty-eight," Denki says, and as he says it, he realizes that he is exhausted. It's not just Midoriya speaking inhumanely fast, it's also Denki's brain this close to getting fried. The familiar throbbing at the back of his head is now progressing to something more than just a migraine. "I don't think I can do more, to be honest."
"Yes you can."
Blinks. "..What?" he says, for the umpteenth time.
"Yes you can," Midoriya repeats, and Denki looks to his hand. Or rather, the stick-sword thing in Midoriya's hand. "Will you?"
Now, Denki's head isn't in its optimum processing capabilities at the moment, but it doesn't take him long to recognize what that is. From up close, he realizes that the thing taped on it is a circuit.
"Dude," Denki says, in confused awe. The gears in his head are slowly kicking to work, as he comprehends what he is seeing. "did you just make this?"
"I tested it and it worked but for greater range it needs greater current and I can't afford that right now and you are the closest thing to an electricity generator around here and—"
Denki isn't capable to comprehend that many words in that short amount of time so he just says, "How the hell did you know how to make an EMP generator sword?"
Midoriya blinks. "I, uh. I don't—I mean, I didn't? I just winged it on the fly, kinda? And I wouldn't say it's an EMP generator sword, it's just attached to the sword and because I needed an insulator and I figured the bokken would work fine but anyway you see I—"
"Midoriya," Denki says, slowly. "Are you telling me you just learned to make an EMP in five minutes just now?" and from the looks like it, the hasty wiring and the frankensteined-heaps of screws and wires and spark gaps … and is that a makeshift capacitor? Did this guy make an EMP generator from scratch?
Electronic magnetic pulse. Of course—he didn't even think about it, and Denki is the one with electricity Quirk here, dammit. Goddamn, that's brilliant.
"Kaminari-kun," a note of panic and exasperation in Midoriya's voice, "we are wasting time , so will you or will you not—"
"Hell yeah," Denki says. "Give me the EMP sword."
"It's not a sword," but he hands it over anyway. And then he blurts, "I only have three points. I don't know how the points off this would work between the two of us—if this would work at all—but I'm stumped, and. Well—"
"Got it," Denki says. He's not sure if he does get it, but he kind of gets the gist and he wants to do it anyway.
Denki doesn't have a good handle on the output of his Quirk. He takes a deep breath, and carefully holds the handle with one hand and the wiring with another, and carefully, very carefully —because he doesn't want to destroy all electronic devices in the whole region—reaches to his Quirk and pushes.
There is a moment of utter silence before loud, resounding THUMP. The Villain Bot from at the end of the street just fell and died. It's a three pointer.
Around them, the remaining Villain Bots follow suit; the light in its head shutting down as if by a switch. Far, in several places out in the faux-city, loud thumps are reverberating throughout—the radius of the EMP must've reached out that far.
Confusion slowly erupts from the other applicants. "What the hell? Is the exam over?" someone says. "Hey, we still got a minute left!"
Denki feels like his vision is starting to show more colors than there are colors in the world, but he says, "holy shit."
"It works," Midoriya says, like he doesn't believe it, reeling. Denki's head is this close to be jellified, but he manages enough brain cells to put a thumb up. His other hand shoves the bokken back to Midoriya's chest. Midoriya takes it, still in disbelief, seemingly.
"Fuck yeah it does," Denki says. "Dude, that was sick, we are the best team up after Pash and Ikachu."
Midoriya stares. "You mean Ash and Pikachu."
Denki blinks. "What?"
Midoriya blinks back. "What?"
"ONE MINUTE LEFT!" Present Mic says, and then they hear a loud, terrible sound as the ground beneath them begins to tremble.
For a moment, underneath the haze of the aftermath of his Quirk, Denki doesn't really know what's going on. And then he's being pulled.
"The zero pointer," Midoriya yells so his voice is above the sudden noise, his hands pulling Denki's. "Kaminari-kun, we gotta run—"
The zero pointer is gigantic. Izuku just realizes that he has never really known the true meaning of the word before.
It must be twelve stories, fifteen stories high. It towers above them, blocking out the sun, and what the hell. Izuku almost can't believe what he sees—the size of that thing, god. The damage that it causes, that it will cause—and it's coming right at them.
Present Mic had recommended them to stay away from it.
"The zero pointer. We gotta run, Kaminari-kun—"
Kaminari looks like he's gonna pass out. Quirk overuse, Izuku realizes, with a flare of panic.
Around them, the other applicants are just as stunned, staring at the giant actual Villain bot looming above them all like some sort of monster. That can't be right … right? There is no way U.A would—
Its five LED lights shine a few wattage higher before it smashes down to the ground with a force so powerful the buildings around them reverberate with it and blocks of concrete crumble down the sky. Smoke and dust and debris booms around them and Izuku hears someone, several someones, scream.
"Shit," Izuku says weakly, half-hysteric. His legs feel like jelly under him. "That's overkill, isn't it."
A beat, and then the main street is rushed as the other applicants start running. Shit. Shit. They have to go, they have to go now.
Kaminari still looks lost beside him, so Izuku starts to drag Kaminari's hand and begins to run when he hears it: a whimper.
It's weak, but unmistakable; there is a person under the rubble. Someone got buried from the falling debris. In a stupid second, Izuku stops and looks back.
His safety goggles, though cracked now, spares him his vision as the smoke billows out, and he sees her. A mop of brown hair. She got her legs stuck under. She looks like she is in pain. She looks like she is going to cry.
Don't panic. Izuku doesn't panic.
He looks at his bokken. It's fallen to the ground somewhere between all the frenzy. The circuits are all completely fried; the capacitor couldn't handle Kaminari's Quirk, unsurprisingly. He's only got one option left.
One stupid, stupid option.
"Kaminari-kun, run," the boy stares back at him with confusion, but Izuku isn't paying attention. He unzips his bag with force and urgency. This is stupid. So stupid. His mom wouldn't be proud of him.
Do not test it when I'm not home, she'd said. Well, she's at work, so she isn't home, but technically Izuku isn't home either. Loophole, huh, he thinks, and winces. That's not funny. "Sorry, Mom."
Alright. This is stupid. He is probably going to die. Or lose an arm. Or a leg. Whatever it takes, right? He lets his bag drop to the ground.
He's never tried this before. He just brought these as a precaution, but he didn't really have any intention to use them. He is going to kill himse—
That's it.
What was it, that line of thought? It's a game. It's like a game. The villain bots are stock monsters. The zero-pointer is the final boss that won't give you any points.
Inventory. Hit points. Lives.
It's a game, except that it's going to get him killed.
Like a domino, it all falls and clicks in Izuku's head with pinpoint, gentle precision. That's it. Izuku has never been a winner. Izuku has always been so much better at losing. And that's the thing about losing, isn't it? He just has to try again.
He just has to keep trying.
And Izuku has unlimited lives, so isn't that just perfect?
The universe has always loved to mess with him. "Please work," Izuku says it like a prayer, and shoots the grappling hook. It hits, but too far off from his target; a point at the outside of the building closest to the bot. In a frenzy, Izuku tries again for the second time.
By some miracle, the second hook lodges itself harshly to near Izuku's target. This is it. The cord is tight with tension. This is it. Izuku pulls, and launches.
Momentum, gravity—all laws of physics are all smashed out of his head as he soars through the air in what seems like a dream; the world blurs around him and Izuku almost convinces himself that none of this is real. That there is no way he just did that. There is no way he just recklessly used his homemade dangerous invention that he never even tried before and launches himself to the sky to murder a giant robot.
The impact hits him like a brick wall. And then he realizes that he literally hits a brick wall.
Adrenaline rushes through him in a drunken, dizzying intensity. Distantly he can feel his fingers gripping the wire for dear life. Izuku stares to the giant red eyes of the Villain bot. The sheer size of it is overwhelming up close; even the head is at least two or three times Izuku's height. Izuku can't even comprehend that he himself is feet above ground right now hanging literally by a thread. The adrenaline and the shot of pure, sheer disbelief makes it all seem surreal.
Izuku brandishes the sixteenth prototype.
He doesn't know if he can make a jump. His feet find purchase on a window sill. He has to make the jump, so he jumps.
A click, the butane propeller clicks in and the fuel valve opens and the blade of the prototype burns.
Plasma burns along the edge of the katana within the Lorenz Force, casting its reflection in green—from the boric acid in its fuel—turning the heat up to give or take 35.000 °C, at best.
It's not a lightsaber, per se, but it's the next closest thing that he can make.
The magnetic field isn't going to last long, though, so Izuku has to do this now or he'll risk either a) getting smacked down by a giant robot, or b) having the whole prototype explode due to some not-so-unforeseen miscalculation, or c) all of the above.
Izuku either has to destroy the bot's power source, its controller, or does enough damage to afflict all of its sensors. But right now, fifteen stories up the air holding a questionable makeshift plasma katana and breaking every single safety regulations his mother and any educational institutions have ever taught him, Izuku doesn't exactly have the luxuries of logical planning.
So he just has to see how much damage this thing can really make.
Facing the LED eyes of the one pointer, Izuku swings and pushes with everything that he has. Every single thing that he has.
Sparks explode to his vision and Izuku hears the bot groans a long-suffering sigh as it creaks and—and then he hears more explosions. His ears ring so loudly that it hurts, and then he's deaf. Izuku must've hit a crucial component, somehow, by pure luck. He really is on a roll today. His arms shake with the force he has to maintain, holding the hilt of the katana—this time not with the intent to damage but with the sheer unadulterated instinct to hang on for dear life.
He can't hear anything but the tremor is unmistakable, and Izuku knows it's coming but when the loss of gravity catches up to him, he finds himself dumbfounded. And then he thinks, holy shit, I did it.
He did it.
And then he falls.
Here is the thing about falling. Nothing can prepare you to how long it takes. All the waxed poetry about how everything slows down in that one moment, Izuku has found out nine months ago, is true. Everything slows down in this one moment. The buildings blur around him and the sky is so, so blue. Izuku thinks he is dreaming. He must be dreaming.
He's dreamt of this so many times, after all; of this single sensation of falling. He's dreamt of the school's roof, the edge of the ledge. The moments building up to it: Kacchan's smile and Kacchan's laughter and Izuku's shaking hand as he writes I'm sorry before scrapping the paper out because Izuku is too much of a coward to come up with a suicide note.
He's dreamt of it, so many times, so many times : the blinding, satisfying pain. The rush of regret, so much regret, and then the relief. And then, finally, the abrupt stop. He's dreamt about it. About stopping to exist. It's the one thing he can't seem to stop dreaming about, aside from the jumping part.
Everything stops.
No, everything actually stops. Izuku has stopped falling.
He is suspended mid-air. Someone is touching his hand. He looks—and sees the nice girl, no longer buried under, now, floating on a chunk of concrete with an arm reached out to him. Her face is covered with dust and she still looks like she is in pain. And then they land to the ground like a feather.
Izuku stares, uncomprehending. Around him, it looks like a post-apocalyptic wasteland. The one pointer still stands, frozen still amidst its malfunction like a giant statue of property damage. The air smells familiar; it reeks of smoke and ash and crisply burnt circuits.
Izuku realizes with a start that his hands feels like they are burning. He looks down. His gloves have been burnt away, leaving raw, red gashes on his palm. His prototype really did explode, then. The pain is unbearable.
The girl climbs down the concrete with effort, half crawling as she is visibly relying mostly on her hands. She stands for a short second before crumbling down; her legs must be unable to take the weight. Her knees are all messed up and bleeding, shaking although she is crumpled on the ground, panting. They are both on the ground.
She says something. Izuku is still deaf from all the explosions, but he can read her lips somewhat.
"I'm going to throw up," she tells him.
Ah. Izuku can't hear himself either, but he responds anyway. "I'm going to have a panic attack," he tells her.
And then they both do exactly that.